Remembering
by Alex the Anachronistic
Summary: Oh, hell. Severus Snape's in a graveyard because he's got an inordinate amount of respect for yet another bloody Gryffindor.


DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does.

Remembering

A figure stands in the cemetery one cool winter afternoon in November. The trees shake in time with the waltzing winds, blowing back and forth, their branches caressing each other with soft affection. The sun is, interchangeably, dim and bright, as depending on the situation of the clouds which pass before it. The sky, when not blocked from view by the heavy gray balls of cotton in the skies, is a radiant and bright blue. The wind chases the dead leaves that haven't rotted yet over the frozen ground in little playful whirlwinds. Here, the first snow has not yet fallen, but perhaps tonight will be the night. The dead grass lies still, trampled and overtaken by the first frost many nights ago. The evening is fast approaching.

The man stands at one particular gravestone in the corner of the cemetery, rather near the heavy black cast-iron fence, not saying, and not hearing, tightly wrapped in His black cloaks and muffler. From a distance, one can tell that He's perfectly comfortable there. He stands, straight-backed and arms crossed, simply staring at the mossy gravestone. Approaching closer, one can see the fierce determination in the man's hawk-like nose, His shining once-black-but-now-graying locks, and the melancholy of His dark eyes. Somewhere therein lay compassion, but it was harder to come by than ever for this man.

This was not the first time He had been here. Indeed, in fact, the Girl had died many years before, fighting bravely in the Great War against Voldemort. Ever since the day She was buried, this man had come to pay His respects to His fallen love, every single day He could. And for this perfectionist of a man, with an ego as large as a walnut, ambition as vast as the very ocean, and as many secrets as hexagons in a beehive, it was no minor feat to come as often as He did.

Normally, on His almost-daily visits, He would simply come, sit by the grave of the Girl He had held in higher regards then any other before, and muse over His recollections. The site quickly became His favorite place to think, read, write, sleep, picnic, and even meditate (the latter, at least, during the short period of time in which He was obsessed with Buddhism.) Coming to the site came to be His absolute favorite pastime. When He was there, He felt oddly inspired and energetic; whenever He was not, He was extremely languid and apathetic.

When the war ended, two years after the death of the Girl, He was hailed as a hero for all that He had undergone, and was rewarded everywhere. When all the hubbub and splendor of the spotlight had died down a bit, He was offered His old post as teacher in His alma mater school, not to mention several positions far more prestigious in research, government facilities, and even the secret service. However, He was not of the frame of mind to accept any of those offers. He was old. He was tired. He was beaten, and He wanted to do as He had always wanted to do for years--simply seclude Himself away and make a living off His work done in solitude. So He did exactly that. He purchased a small cottage in a lonely forest somewhat near Bath, and closed himself off from the world. There, He spent His hours engaged in the writing of tragic novels and poetry under a woman's pseudonym, to detract attention from himself. Nevertheless, even with all the peace and solitude His hermitlike existence afforded Him, He found that He created His best works at the gravesite. Thus, He made the headstone of His beloved His workplace. His daily sojourns only consisted of to the cemetery and back.

The groundskeeper of the cemetery soon came to know and recognize Him, but said nothing of His eccentric behavior. By far, He was not the only one who pined. However, Old Tom, as the groundskeeper was known, was impressed by His punctuality and loyalty to habit. At six in the morning, when the gates were opened, Tom always noticed Him as being the first one, and usually the only one, waiting patiently for entrance. It didn't take Tom a long time to see that He was always out there before the sun came up, a full two hours before normally anyone was admitted. Tom was a kind old soul, and took pity on Him, the bereaved, so Tom would let Him into the cemetery as soon as He showed up. They never said anything to each other, He and Tom, but Tom's compassion and ignorance was probably one of the most helpful influences on His life.

He was soon spending every hour possible at the cemetery. In all actuality, He was making quite a tidy sum of money from his best-sellers, but he didn't care. Death always being something at the forefront of His mind, He did make a will, in which He dedicated everything simply to 'the groundskeeper in the cemetery, for him to do what he wishes.' Sometimes, however, despite the fact that He was so successful, He occasionally suffered from writer's block, like all writers. He simply, at these times, couldn't feel the drive to write at all, even while He was there on the green. Then, He would simply either stand and zone out of the world temporarily, or else talk to the silence about Him. It made for a relaxing pastime, and the hours passed quite swiftly.

Sometimes, He managed to forget the fact that the one He loved had never even remotely loved Him in return. But then, who DID love Him, ever? Only His mother had ever told Him 'I love you,' but now she was long dead, so what of it? She'd been dead since His adolescence; He felt the pain yet, but not half as greatly as the time she had died. He only had the strength nowadays to grieve for the Girl.

He and the Girl, however, He knew, never would have made a feasible couple, even if, for some reason, She had consented to marry Him. There were too many barriers in place. For one, He was a mudblood, but a pureblood wanna-be, and She was completely Muggle-born. To retain His dignity, they could never have anything more than a teacher-student relationship. And yes, there was that problem also—their ages. He was twice Her age, and Her teacher to boot. Neither Her parents nor the rest of the world would have really liked the marriage at all. Those problems, along with others, had prevented Him from saying anything to Her, ever, about His feelings. He wished he might have told Her before She died at the hand of His alleged 'friend', anyhow.

Severus Snape began to cough as he stood there, at Hermione Granger's grave. This cough was a horrible, racking one, and he hadn't been able to find a cure for it since last January, when he contracted it. Suddenly, Snape felt as though all the strength in his body had dissipated. He sank down heavily onto the ground beside the headstone.

Snape knew, deep inside, that things never would have worked out satisfactorily with him and Hermione. Both being highly intelligent, they probably would have fought a lot over trivial opinions and viewpoints. In other words, if they had somehow removed the barriers, their relationship still never would have been successful. Snape accepted this and was fine with it. At least she had died single. If she hadn't Snape probably wouldn't have come here, ever, not even for the funeral. But since she didn't, he did, and. Perhaps, it was in this way that Hermione's spirit could help him most. He knew he never would have done so welll in his writing without her presence's influence.

Snape's coughing was only increasing in vehemence. Soon, Snape's mouth emitted a thick gurgling noise, as Snape choked on his own blood. He tried to swallow, but he could not. The blood was slowly suffocating him.

Snape knew he was dying as he lay there, turning a gradual ashen blue. Suddenly, as he lay, prostrate and helpless on the ground, his eyes lit up. He saw Hermione, coming slowly towards him, had outstretched, beckoning. "Come, Severus," she seemed to be saying, but her lips made no sound. She continued to approach him, and, trembling, Snape raised his hand to touch hers. She grasped it warmly, and helped him up. Then, hand in hand, Snape and Hermione walked away from the scene, harmonious as the colors of the sunset.

Old Tom noticed that Snape hadn't left by closing time that evening. Being a curious Muggle as he was, he closed the heavy iron gates of the cemetery after the last patron had let, and set out to search.

He found Severus Snape exactly where he suspected, at Hermione Granger's gravesite. The man was stone dead. A bit saddened, Tom approached the body warily. He could see that on the face of the deceased, though it was somewhat obscured by the blood which fused from the mouth, a small smile.


End file.
